Piracy Dreams
by Leinney Moorlyn
Summary: BDSM Trigger Warning: this extended dream sequence involves "ravaging" that could be construed as non-consensual, but it's the woman's dream. This Flint in an alternate universe where he is not gay, but embodies the lady-killing passion of Vane, the brutal fighting skill of Blackbeard and the gentlemanly compassion of Rackham.
1. Finding the Prize

**_Trigger Warning & Note about Consent: This story contains BDSM elements that may appear like non-consensual sex; however, it is a fantasy as seen in a woman's dream and as such, all activities are under her ultimate control. There are quite a number of situations where she asserts her sovereign consent, thereby demonstrating that she has the capability of choosing not to consent. Many of the fantasy situations would not work the same pragmatically in the real world, and thus caution should be used if one tries this at home. Safety and enthusiastic consent is the way to do _**_**it.**_

 _ **Also, I have reworked the storyline a bit, making it align with canon better.**_

* * *

While vacationing in the Bahamas, a woman sits on the beach dreaming after leisurely cocktails lull her into sleep, and a book falls from her hand on the sand beside her. It tells the tales of pirates, both historical and legendary, mixing in her dreams.

* * *

On a moderately breezy, sunny day. Captain Flint's green eyes squinted into the mid-morning sun rising above the storm clouds, mercifully heading away from their position. He cut an imposing figure, being fully six feet tall, with mahogany hair pulled back from his forehead into a leather knot at his crown and a fiery scarlet goatee over a solid square jaw. From the crow's nest above a shout signaled a ship had been spotted on the western horizon; turning, he pulled out his spyglass to take a look.

Ordinarily, it would take half a day or more to catch up to such a ship, but this one was odd. For one thing, she was closer than most sailing ships upon first spotting, their white topgallant sails gleaming in the sun along the horizon; for another, this vessel only had the lower foresail unfurled—in such breezy weather. A fine, three-masted frigate of a prize she was, but no colors flew to indicate ownership. It would perhaps take a couple of hours at full knot speed to catch up to what might prove an easy mark. They needed a prize like this to keep the crew happy, after their recent spate of ill luck.

Upon approach, the crew readied the cannons, but their quarry appeared deserted, for there was no change in course nor defensive reaction; gun ports remained closed and the deck remained deserted. At close distance, ten of the eleven sails could be seen neatly lashed, as if in port or riding out a storm. No damage to the vessel was apparent, and it seemed to have been recently launched or refitted, judging by the bright varnish and paint. It was a beautiful ship.

Boarding happened quickly, the men dispersing to all quarters with swords and pistols drawn. His own cutlass at the ready, Flint strode to the stern, seeking the ship's log and manifest. Along the way, he noticed the helm wheel had been secured to keep it on a steady course. He headed past the closed doors of the officer's quarters, straight back to the captain's cabin. Bursting through the door, he was surprised by a lone figure rising from the window seat opposite, left-handedly swiping a blade from the table.

Swiftly he attacked with brutal force, raining heavy blows upon his opponent. He growled, "Yield, and I may let you live!" realizing in that moment he was fighting a woman, however strangely dressed she was in long trousers and a shirt with sleeves cut above the elbow. She blocked his first strikes, yet reeled from the force of them. His fifth swing knocked her down, her sword clattering across the floor. But instead of catching her then, he was amazed at how quickly she scuttled to retrieve her cutlass, her long braid swinging vigorously from the crown of her head.

"Yield, I said! You cannot hope to win!" And he attacked again. However, this time she changed her tactics along with sword hands, parrying instead of blocking. Using his own strength against him, she darted sideways, leaving empty spaces for his forceful charges to stumble. With a deft twist against his hilt, she pushed into a nerve in his hand that disarmed him, quickly following through with sword-point to his neck to back him against the bulkhead. He tried lunging forward but stopped when he felt her unwavering point prick a blood droplet from his Adam's apple.

A lower growl formed in his throat, but before he could form threatening words to match, she cocked her head listening to his men stomping across the decks. "You have a crew?" Without waiting for an answer, and in the blink of a moment, she rotated the cutlass, holding it horizontally out towards him, head bowed. "Then I surrender this ship and its contents into your safekeeping." Her body shook slightly, breathing still raggedly from the fight.

This sudden turn surprised him, but adrenaline still roared in his ears. He seized the proffered sword, immediately holding it across her throat as his long strides backed her against the table. Her steady return gaze caught his anger, diffusing it; she wasn't quite defiant, not quite bravely fearful, but in suspense between the two. "All her contents?" he queried in a softly dangerous tone, lifting her chin with the sword drawing a thin line of blood. A flush spread across her cheeks as her gaze wavered, lips trembling. He took those lips in his, breaking through her eggshell resistance and exploring his new acquisition as she surrendered herself into the kiss. Seducing women with a kiss was his special gift, although rarely used. He stopped as abruptly as he started. "I thought as much."

"You... have me at a... d-dis-advantage, sir," she breathed, still recovering.

He placed the cutlass behind her on the table, gripping her lower back in one hand and the top of her long braid in the other, pressing his hips and lips against hers, leaving no doubt as to how thoroughly he intended to explore this new possession. Her arms rose up to grasp at his shoulder blades. Yet he stopped suddenly again, upon hearing his crew's boots on the planking.

"Come." Sweeping up his own sword to resheathe it, he noticed with satisfaction that she was still leaning back against the table, regaining her balance. He led her outside onto the deck, pulling out his kerchief to dab the spot of blood on his throat before wiping sweat from his brow. It would not do for his crew to see him injured by a mere woman. His quartermaster was surprised to see the prisoner, but informed him the rest of the ship was secure, with no other passengers nor crew, but the hold was full and ready to inventory. Billy Bones, the boatswain, had already seen to it that the one foresail had been furled while the ships were attached.

A scuffle from behind made them turn to look: the woman had hold of Smitty's wrist twisting the seaman's arm as he lay fallen at her feet. "Don't." She looked down on the hapless sailor with a set to her jaw.

Restrained ire clouded the captain's brow. "Let him go." At a nod, two brawny crew members took firm hold of her arms as she complied. "Mr. Gates," he called over his shoulder to his burly quartermaster while staring at her darkly, "Do you recall any rooms below particularly suited to hold her securely?" While she did not struggle, her eyes still flashed defiance against whatever Smitty had done. Flint stepped over and wiped her bloodied neck with his kerchief to cover his own blood on the cloth, sneering a little as she winced.

"Yes, captain, I believe I know just the place. Sturdy bolt on the outside to keep merchandise from shifting. Move a few boxes out and she'll have room enough to sit." At a nod, the quartermaster took the woman down to the hold. Flint wasn't sure whether he meant to keep the woman safe from the crew or the crew safe from her—or both. He would question her later, after examining this easily won prize.


	2. Possessing the Prize

More complete inspection of the ship confirmed earlier assessments: the ship was in excellent condition. While the sails had been neatly lashed, the looped knots weren't common, but they did the job. Captain Flint decided to move his main crew and gun complement to this new ship and leave a skeleton crew aboard the worn, old Walrus, giving captaincy of it to Mr. Singleton, one of his experienced men; they would need more of the crew to learn the ropes of the new frigate.

He had found very little in the captain's quarters to answer his questions about the ship's origins. There was no formal log nor manifest to be found, just a small, leather notebook with unusual handwriting containing an informal diary of a week's worth of weather and random lists of supplies found on board; there were no dates, just Roman numerals. The first few pages reminded him of a child's copybook, smudged by inexperience with pen and ink. A few stylized drawings of improbable knots were doodled on some of the pages. While there were a few general maps, navigation instruments were conspicuously absent. Apart from what was obviously the woman's hairbrush and sundries in the captain's cabin, the officers' quarters were absent any personal items. It was almost as if the ship had escaped mooring without being noticed by a crew that wasn't yet aboard.

Mr. Randall, the cook, had found the galley so wonderfully clean and equipped that he delightedly set about making a fine supper for the crew. Mr. Gates had unearthed several barrels of quality rum in the stores and tripled the day's rations in celebration; he had also found several bottles of reserved wine, which he brought to the captain's cabin. The crew were in fine spirits.

Captain Flint sent Mr. Gates to fetch the captive from her cell, but the quartermaster returned quickly to tell him she had escaped confinement through a small hole hidden behind some cargo she had moved.

Flint blinked and then roared. "Find her!"

"Yes, captain!"

In his new quarters, he made preparations while waiting for the wayward woman to be brought to him. Having had his trunks brought over, he found what he wanted in one of them and laid it carefully behind a screen. He then set the table with fine porcelain, silver utensils and crystal goblets upon a silk table cloth, awaiting the repast the cook had promised him.

When he was done and surveying his efforts, a window opened and the fugitive slipped in as the captain turned around, glaring.

As soon as she saw his face, she stopped still. "You were looking for me, sir?" She met his gaze squarely but with conflicting emotions plain to read. Shrugging sheepishly as she saw him smoldering, partly subordinate yet with paper-thin defiant confidence, querying his next move.

He left her in suspense as he regarded her more closely. Small, bare feet each sported a silver ring on the second toe. Her ankle-length, indigo canvas trousers were tailored with fine stitching to match the natural contours of her legs, yet they didn't impede movement. Likewise, her green, short-sleeved shirt was finely knitted from thin thread, leaving nothing to the imagination as to the figure that lay beneath, despite showing no cleavage with its rounded, collarless, high neck. There was a delicately painted image of trees knotted together on the front, unlike any style he had ever seen, but more suited to a wall hanging. The golden-tan glow of her skin marred any aristocratically porcelain hue but yet did not detract from her beauty. Having been released from the braid, sun-bleached walnut locks cascaded around storm-blue eyes in an oval face. She was very tall for a woman—taller than half his crew—being about three inches shorter than Flint himself.

"Captain," he corrected. "Don't call me 'sir'—that's for naval officers[1]. I am Captain Flint, of the pirate ship Walrus." He raised his eyebrows willing her to reply with her name.

"Yes si'— ** _captain_**." Her startled eyes made Flint wonder what of his notorious reputation she had heard. Most of it was untrue, but helped keep people in line lest they make trouble for him.

A knock came on the door. It was Randall with the promised meal; he ogled the woman silently, but quickly put the food on the table. Flint told Randall to inform Mr. Gates to call off the search and to leave them undisturbed.

"Yes, Captain." And the cook bowed out, shutting the door.

"Behind that screen, you will find more appropriate clothes for dining." It was clearly an order, couched in deceptively friendly words.

She hesitated, but one look at his fierce demeanor was enough to convince her without specific threat. He considered tying her to the main mast instead of locking her in the hold; idly he wondered whether she would still find a way to escape.

Flint had picked a blue, silk dress the color of the twilight sky that he'd plundered from a ship and taken a fancy to—the lady he had ransomed from that haul looked about the same height and size. He had also provided stockings and slippers, along with the underdress. When she emerged fully clothed, he was pleased to see his estimate was not entirely wrong. The sleeves might be a bit short and tight, and she was perhaps a few inches taller than the original owner, but the visible ankles made the ensemble even more appealing.

"Sit." Flint waved to the chair opposite him.

He poured wine for them and dished out their supper. He noticed she waited politely until he started eating, and used the silverware with refined manners. Holding off until she had eaten several bites and sipped her glass more than halfway, he topped it off and broke the silence.

"How did you come to be aboard this ship all alone?"

Placing her knife and fork down, she met his gaze with vulnerable steadiness. "I do not know. A little over a week ago, I woke up and here I was, all the sails full of wind but with no crew to sail her. I have no idea how I got here, nor why there was no crew on board."

" ** _You?_** —you tied the sails to the yards by yourself?!" he asked incredulously; at least four sailors would be needed do the job on the larger sails, usually double that number.

She shrugged, slightly confused, as if it were nothing. "Had to, being by myself. One of the first things I did—I saw a storm on the horizon, and although I was fortunate enough not to have it coming in my direction, I realized I wouldn't be able to stow the sails in time if another storm cropped up. So I started from the top down and kept just the one sail, figuring it was more manageable. Then I took stock of the supplies. I wrote it down in there." She gestured in the direction of the notebook he'd found and left on the shelf. "And although I estimate the food stores are enough to last one person for months on end, company **_was_** in short supply; I am grateful to have run across you and your crew."

"Grateful?" He lifted an eyebrow. "You have a strange manner of demonstrating gratitude, attacking me and one of my crew, then slipping out of the hold..."

She took a deep breath and long sip from her glass. "As I recall, sir—" she stopped up short, seeing his eyebrow rise again. "I beg your pardon. As I recall, **_captain_** , you attacked me, and I defended myself. As for the sailor, he... startled me with... actions unbefitting a gentleman, and... again, I defended myself." While her eyes spoke frankly, she took care to speak softly and politely. "As for leaving the hold," she shrugged, "I needed some fresh air." Sighing, she bowed her head and continued. "Please accept my apologies for the ungrateful offense I have given."

He chuckled softly, but resumed eating. He wondered at her upbringing, being such a curious mix of demure politeness and brazen independence. He admired this strange bird, so clearly intelligent, although he was puzzled as how to handle her wildness. Her apology was conventionally pragmatic, but he did not for one instant believe its sincerity. He remembered, though, Smitty's tendency to be handsy with the ladies.

When he pushed his plate away, he refilled their glasses and sat back, resuming the interrogation. He needed to know what his prospects for ransoming her were. "Are you going to tell me your name?"

She shook her head slowly. "I... don't know..." She trailed off, looking lost.

Setting his glass down, he rose from the table to pull her up, gripping her upper arms. "I shall rephrase that: you **_will_** tell me your name!"

Using his eyes to steady herself, she regained her frail composure. She replied softly, "I do not know my name, captain. The first thing I remember clearly is a week ago, waking up here." A few welled up tears spilled down her cheeks. Bravely, she tried to ignore them.

"Really? No name?" He looked down skeptically and called her bluff, if that was what it was, even though the tears were convincing. "Then, no family. No one to object." He took her lips in his once more, this time savoring the kiss with no interruptions. At first, she submitted, relaxing into his embrace, but then her hands pulled at his muscled back as she returned his passions, challenging his control of the situation. He broke off for some air.

" ** _I_** could," she contradicted.

"Could...?" He prompted, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

" ** _I_** could object," she clarified, coyly pushing her luck.

"Could you now?" He picked her up and deposited her on the wide couch-seat under the window, resuming the kiss where he had left off, feeling her enthusiastic response while simultaneously moving to her skirts. Starting gently with his thrusts until he found her writhing under him, he increased his rhythm and power until she moaned and bucked under his weight. When their passions had spent, he lay on his side next to her, stroking her bosum with a lazy finger, amused at the goose pimples he drew. He chuckled. "And do you object, m'dear?"

She shook her head slightly, eyes glazed, but added, "I should."

"Ah, but you should not." He slowly traced a line down her throat from her chin and continued along her sternum into her cleavage. "You surrendered this ship and her contents, including you. You and your ship are mine, now. Pirate booty." He felt her shiver, delighting him as he declared, "Good, now that's settled. How is it that you don't know who you are but you know so much about being at sea to furl the sails in bad weather?"

"So much? Surely only rudimentary knowledge at best... I don't know." She stared off into the distance. "I think... I think I have sailed a small boat before—with a single sail and a tiller and a boom so low you have to be careful not to bonk yourself in the head when changing tacks." She put her hand up and ducked as if to protect her head from an imaginary boom, pausing before continuing. "I wouldn't know how to tack into the wind with a ship this size—probably need a crew to manage the sails..." she trailed off, before resuming with more confidence. "Which is why I kept the wind at my back, hoping to run across another ship or land."

"As fortune would have it, the Walrus, my ship."

She sighed. "Yes, captain."

He moved them to the larger bed for more ministrations. This time he sat her in his lap straddling him as her face came even with his. He enjoyed seeing her eyes widen as he grew into her again, moving her forward and back in a rocking motion that she eagerly joined. He started kissing her again until they both toppled back together, and she landed on him catching her fall with her hands lightly cupping his wrists. Immediately he flipped her over onto her back, pinning her wrists instead and plowing into her to reassert control, while she groaned in ecstasy.

It took both of them a little longer to recover, but in that time, Flint had an inspiration, propping himself on one elbow to tell her. "I've decided to call you Bess, after the good queen whose long reign ended a little over a century ago."

Startled, she pondered his words.

After another moment, he continued, "you'll need a surname as well." Thinking of her strange shirt, he quickly decided. "Greenwood. Bess Greenwood."

She nodded in agreement. "Bess Greenwood, it is. Thank you, Captain."

"And I've seen no name for your ship, either. It shall be: The Prize."

He bent down to seal the decision with a long, languid kiss, feeling his loins awaken again in passion, which he indulged thoroughly before they both fell exhausted, entwined in sleep.

* * *

[1] Captain Flint was a naval officer before being betrayed and subsequently turning to piracy, so this is a rather sore point for him


	3. Running the Rigging

He awoke at dawn, finding the bed empty next to him. The blue dress lay neatly folded over a chair. Donning his shirt and breeches quickly, he called to Mr. Gates to look for Bess Greenwood, as he had "discovered" to be her name.

In the midst of a mass search, she was heard playing a penny whistle in the crow's nest. The captain sent the newest member of the crew, Thomas, the cabin boy, up to fetch her down, figuring the boy's dread awe of him would get the message across. And he left the quartermaster with crew members to escort her to his cabin once she climbed back to the deck.

Flint heard a knock on the door.

"Enter."

Mr. Gates opened the door. He was alone. "Sorry, captain, she escaped our clutches again. You're never going to believe this, but halfway down the ratlines, Miss Greenwood took hold of a rope, unfurling the mainsail as she swung from the port stays to the starboard rail." Flint looked hard at Gates as if he were joking, but the quartermaster nodded in grim amazement at the truth of it. "We lost track of her behind the sail, but then spotted her going over the side. When we got there, she had disappeared, but she wasn't in the water."

"Keep looking!"

"Yes, captain."

"And tell Mr. Bones to hold off on refurling the mainsail."

Mr. Gates hesitated with doubt, but nodded assent to the captain's orders before departing. As the door closed behind the quartermaster, a shadow flitted by the window. Captain Flint strode over, yanking it open. She entered, clad in her odd trousers and shirt, once again barefoot.

"You sent for me, captain?" The expression on her face was between innocence and insolence.

He gripped her by the back of the neck, running his thumb softly along her windpipe, forcing her to look up at him. "What do you think you're doing?" he growled down at her.

Wide-eyed, Bess stammered, "I-I w-watch the s-sun come up every m-morning from the crow's n-nest."

His thumb came to a vertical rest and his grip firmed, not yet choking her. In his experience with captives, mere threat could elicit easy compliance while actual peril often engendered resistance. He could feel her swallow nervously as he demanded, "Drop your trousers."

Blanching, she fumbled blindly to obey. He bent her over one of the railings used to keep stowed items from sliding across the floor and commanded her to grab the spindles. Then he reached for a leather strap to discipline her as he did the cabin boy upon occasion. But after the first whack (much lighter than he hit the boy), that part of her anatomy that belonged to no cabin boy gave him another idea.

His initial thrust into her was not gentle, but he found little resistance in the moist folds and he was rewarded by a gasping moan. He did not hold back, but continued pounding into her with the full force and depth of his fury at her willfulness. When he was done, he retied the front of his breeches and sat in a chair. He noted with satisfaction that she was much slower in straightening up, leaning against the railing for support. He knew from what past lovers had told him that she still felt him inside her and probably would for the better part of the day. Good reminder.

"I will have discipline on my ship." His voice was low and dangerously measured. "Unfurling a sail while we are still attached to the other ship risks damage to both ships. You will go up into the rigging and retie the mainsail, showing my crew how you did it. Then you will climb down and stay silently by my side until further notice. Is that understood?" He was curious to have her prove that she had indeed furled the sails, as well as intrigued by the manner of tying them that allowed her to unfurl so quickly.

Bess nodded, chastened. "Yes, captain."

Seeing her hardened nipples poking through the stretched fabric of her shirt, he tossed her one of his smaller yoked shirts to wear instead. No sense tempting his crew to mischief. The trousers would be necessary in the rigging.

As she headed toward the screen to change, he stepped in front of her. "No need for that." Warily, she faced him squarely, removing her shirt and exposing those enticing breasts. As she started to pull his shirt over her head, he gripped one taut nipple between thumb and forefinger, squeezing lightly, eliciting a gasp. "I shall play with these tonight."

"Yes, captain." The shirt muffled her meek words, but he caught a slight thrill in her eyes as the coarse cloth briefly hid them. He helped her tie the cuffs and belt the fabric loosely at the waist with a short rope, billowing out around her hips and thighs like a short dress. Even tied tightly, the collar was loose on her small neck, but stayed closed. Surprisingly, the shoulders were well-fitted, as the sleeve lengths, too. It would do.

Out on the rigging, Bess was nimble as any sailor, demonstrating her odd technique of tying up the mainsail. It involved two ropes tied together, tossing the tied end down under the sail from both sides to haul it up and looping the furling rope onto itself before continuing down from one yardarm to the other end. She used a belaying pin to keep the open loop from loosening along the way. The final loop was left large and hanging while the end of the furling rope was untied from the extra rope and then retied to the shroud. The extra rope fell to the deck, forcing those below to duck out of the way. Thus Flint could see how she could undo the shroud-end and use it to unfurl the sail in one swift movement. Billy Bones, the boatswain, was keen to see how this technique could be employed when moving from mooring to quick pursuit, and he intended the sailors to practice it after they got underway, minus the extra rope that would not be needed with crew working together. As previously instructed, Bess climbed back down the main-shroud ratlines when she was done, returning to Flint's side.

Billy Bones, Gates and Flint conferred together. "It's like knitting," Billy described.

"Figures a woman would come up with it," Gates joked, not unkindly.

"More like _crochet_ ," Bess retorted, rolling her eyes at Billy and Gates, but upon catching Flint's scowl, she quickly cast those eyes silently down at the deck. Flint wasn't sure exactly what she had said, but it sounded like the French word for _little_ _hook_.

"Mr. Gates," Captain Flint said, changing the subject. "Are you ready to get on with the inventory? Could you use a clerk?"

"Indeed, captain," Mr. Gates replied with a friendly gleam in his eye, "that would come in most handy, what with the crew being needed on deck."

While Bess retreated into the hold with Mr. Gates and Thomas, Flint made preparations to separate the vessels, exchanging a few of the newly trained riggers with the Walrus to instruct. When they unfurled the sails, the captain was satisfied to see his new ship underway in less than half the time with a quarter of the normal crew in the rigging, demonstrating quite nicely to Singleton's crew the benefits of the new technique. He was even more pleased to see how much faster, even fully loaded, the Prize was compared to the Walrus, by about two or three knots. If she had been at full sail, they would never have caught her. He instructed the boatswain to reduce sail to allow the other ship to catch up. A very fine prize indeed.

Assured with the current heading and speed back to their home port, Captain Flint descended below decks to check on the inventory. Gates had set up a cargo box and small keg for Bess to sit at with lantern, book, quill, and ink, while he and Thomas methodically emptied each bay to inspect the cargo. Dutifully, she catalogued their contents by compartment, noting numbers and values that Gates dictated, even summing up the values while waiting for them to repack the cargo. There were goods and tools enough to supply any colony fully, including luxury textiles and sundries for aristocratic comfort. There were ample stores to feed the crew for at least three months and extra masts and rope to make any storm- or battle-damage repairs. In addition, there was a full complement of powder and shot that could repel several attempts to capture her—that they had escaped very serious battle was not lost on Gates and Flint. At the end of the long day, when all figures had been tallied, the whole value exceeded the price of the ship carrying it. Flint and Gates were well pleased, if puzzled by the strange provenance.


	4. Good Night, Bess, Good Work

When the inventory was done, Flint sent Bess back to his cabin while he rummaged around in one of the bulkheads, based on the excellent bookkeeping telling him where to find things. In the quarter hour it took him to locate everything, Bess had tidied the cabin, set the table and changed into the blue dress again, all unbidden. He was well pleased with her work.

He set his items on a shelf. "I was able to locate fabric and sewing supplies easily from the ledger. You may make some new clothes for yourself." Then he proceeded to the table to enjoy the supper that had already been laid out.

Midway through the meal, Captain Flint started conversation, "A fine dowry, Bess, I must say."

"I'm afraid I can take no credit for any of it—it was just here." She shrugged.

"Ah," Flint allowed, "but you did good work on the inventory, and here in the cabin as well."

Bess muttered nonchalantly, "Good night, Bess. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning."

He chuckled, "Is that what you believe? I haven't thought about killing you since you surrendered, not even when I was disciplining you this morning."

The flush on her cheeks told him she still felt his discipline, but she managed to answer. "Sorry, captain. No, I was remembering a book I read." Her eyes lost focus as she strove to place it.

"Oh? What book?" He wondered at the mystery of her memory. She was clearly talented in several areas, yet not in remembering the context in which she had acquired those skills.

"It's from a fairytale about the legendary Dread Pirate Roberts, who left no prisoners alive in all the decades he roamed the seas."

"Decades you say? Sounds like a very successful pirate. Continue." _Such droll supper conversation_ , _fairytale pirates,_ he thought.

"Well, except for one prisoner: Westley. While all the other passengers were trying to bribe Captain Roberts with promises of treasures as ransom for their lives, all Westley did was say 'please' and there was something in that 'please' that intrigued the dread pirate. He kept Westley alive to explain what that meant. You see, Westley was on a quest to return with a fortune so he could marry his true love. Roberts was amused, and so he kept Westley on, teaching him the pirate trade, and every night he would say, 'Good night, Westley. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.' Until one day when Roberts decided to retire from pirating. And then he told Westley of the secret of the Dread Pirate Roberts." She paused to drink her wine.

He refilled her glass. "The secret? Go on."

"Well, he was not the first of the Dread Pirate Robertses but the latest in a long line stretching back fifty years. His reputation was so dreadful that no ship dared fire upon him, and most gave up their cargo without a chase, rather than lose their lives."

"Sounds like the best reputation to have!" Flint always enjoyed prizes with no fight, even though a good fight now and again kept them ship shape.

"And the best reputation to keep," she nodded. "No one would fear the Dread Pirate Westley nor the Dread Pirate Cummerbund..."

Flint snorted.

"So, every time the latest Roberts decided to retire, he would dismiss the crew in port, all but the next in line and they would switch roles, the former Dread Pirate referring to the new one as Captain so the rest of the crew would follow suit, never knowing of the change. By the time they reached the subsequent port, the former captain could leave and retire comfortably. And that's how the legend lived onwards, decade after decade."

Flint had not had such a belly laugh in ages. "Thank you for that, Bess. I doubt I shall be killing you in the morning. Maybe _le petit mort_ this evening, though." He winked.

After supper was finished, Captain Flint stood up and held out his hand for Bess to take in standing up, gliding his other hand tantalizingly around her cleavage before pulling her in for a languid kiss. He led her towards the bed, stopping to untie her bodice with a deft hand, pulling the laces out at once with a swift wave of his arm. As her dress fell to the floor, he paused, savoring her silhouette beneath the sheer underdress. Gently, he pulled the shift over her head, caressing her bare skin. He twirled her around slowly, taking in her luscious curves, noticing the angry dark bruise on her buttocks and feeling a twinge of guilt for hitting harder than he had first thought. She hadn't complained, though, despite sitting on that uncomfortable barrel all day.

Flint removed his own shirt, finding her helping him. Then she folded his shirt and her dress to place on the chair, while he removed his breeches. His member was at full attention, waiting to take her to delirious heights. He cupped her breasts in both hands, massaging and squeezing the nipples until they hardened under his touch. A moan escaped her throat as she closed her eyes and he spun her around to face away from him, coming up close behind her to kiss her neck while he pulled her towards him caressing her entire front with both hands, one upper and one nether, feeling the first flush arise. He pushed her onto the bed on all fours and took her from behind, gently thrusting to make room before increasing his ardency as he continued to fondle her breasts. As he felt her shuddering out of control, he pinched both nipples firmly, feeling a sudden rush of warmth that squeezed his equal reply. The two of them collapsed together, arms and legs akimbo, recovering their strength.

"Ah, Bess, I am surely not going to be killing you in the morning," he declared, before jesting, "maybe the afternoon, but surely **_not_** in the morning."

Recovering a little more quickly, Bess impudently threw her leg over, straddling him before he could stop her. Playfully she tugged at his beard, wriggling saucily as she leaned forward to reply. "Good. I should surely **_not_** like to die in the morning."

"How about tonight?!" He roared as he easily flipped her on her back to have at her again, missionary style, but not like any missionary would. This time they were well and truly exhausted by the end and fell asleep instantly.


	5. Smitty's Revenge Goes Awry

In the morning Flint awoke, again to an empty bed beside him. Or not quite empty: there was a note:

 ** _Dear Captain,_**

 ** _I have gone up to greet the sun again and will be back soon_**

 ** _—Bess_**

Reading the note, he fell back again, unsure of whether he would respond gruffly or allow this small indulgence, what with all the delight she had given, although both might be equally pleasurable... Sighing, he got up to open the window to another balmy morning, wondering if she would walk through the door this time or slide through the window again. He performed his morning ablutions and as he idly threw on his shirt and breeches, he heard a splash. What he then saw out the window, trailing behind the ship horrified him.

* * *

Bess had clambered up into the crow's nest as she did every morning when the sky was beginning to lighten, greeting the new sun with a song or two of joy. She had a bounce in her step as she climbed down the stays again to the quarterdeck, not realizing what was about to happen.

Smitty had been talking with Thomas, who was no longer serving the Captain's cabin, but sleeping amongst the men in the general crew quarters, since being "promoted" to sailor. Neither one was happy about the current situation, despite the promise of a good haul once they returned to home port. A few other men grumbled about the unluckiness of having a woman aboard, despite there being no help for it, and Smitty recruited them to his plan.

As soon as Bess hopped down to the deck, two sailors grabbed her arms. Grinning wickedly, Smitty had the end of a rope in his hand, which he wrapped several times around the woman's middle with a bowline knot to secure it. A few yards down the rope, there was already a watertight, empty barrel knotted into it. The longer end of the rope was tied just outside the starboard aft gun port. Thomas lifted the barrel on to the rail while the sailors hoisted their quarry over the side. Two simultaneous splashes rewarded their efforts and they ran up the steep steps to the poop deck to watch the effects. As the ship passed the tethered jetsam, the rope played out, jerking once on the bobbing barrel and again on the woman dragging behind it. Sometimes this punishment resulted in drowning—the floating barrel helping a little with prevention—but they could always haul her in and pump her stomach to get the water out. In any case, their point would be made, taking her down a few notches.

* * *

While in his initial horror he meant to run on deck to save her, Captain Flint was transfixed by what he saw. Immediately after the final jerk on the rope, Bess determinedly moved hand-over-hand as if swimming up the rope. When she got to the barrel, she planted both feet, pushing the cask forward as she pulled slack from the rope running from the ship, leaning far back to balance. As she rose above the waves, plowing a frothy-white wake with the barrel, he heard her whoop in triumph and delight, skimming up one wave and bouncing to the next, somehow keeping her feet solidly planted.

Relief allowed Flint to move his own feet, and he stormed to the quarterdeck, ordering his men to retrieve her, as Billy got the remaining crew to luff the sails to reduce speed, turning the ship to starboard. The captain leapt onto the rail, watching her straddling the cask as it was hoisted up to the gun port, where she untied the knot and scrambled up the ladder boards. Flint jumped down to help her clamber over the railing. Bess stood there, bedraggled as a drowned rat in front of the crew, all gathered to watch the spectacle.

"What fun, boys!" she panted, exhausted, addressing the unexpected audience. Her broad smile seemed to the captain to be a brave front. "Wave-skipping is wonderful and all, but the tools are a bit lubberly." The sailors tittered, earning scowls from Flint and Gates.

"Who did this to you?!" Captain Flint demanded with the full force of his authority through gritted teeth. He had his suspicions of the sweaty-browed faces amongst the crew. He was especially disappointed to see Thomas included in them, as the boy quickly hid his head in shame.

His ire sobered her expression. "Oh dear... Is this bit of harmless amusement not permitted?" Bess asked, feigning ignorance. "As for who, ahem, **_helped_** me, I'm sorry to say we haven't been formally introduced," she shrugged, then bowing her head contritely, "but please accept the most humble of apologies for **_my_** part in it, Captain." The crew could not contain their laughter. Even Gates joined in and Flint squinted, half-smiling with wry amusement.

"Well, **_whoever_** you are," the captain pointedly narrowed his eyes at the suspected culprits in turn, along with the rest of the crew, "know this: our new ship and her fantastic haul derives free for the taking with no cost to our lives—all from Miss Greenwood here. A better haul than we've had in months. I trust that every one of you will treat her with utmost civility from now on. Any further shenanigans will be met with severe consequences." He could see relief on the faces of the suspects and a newfound gratitude towards their benefactress. The message had been well received.

The captain directed Billy to trim the sails and resume course, and the crew hopped to make it so.


	6. Flint's Revenge

Back in the cabin, Flint helped Bess peel off her wet clothes, hanging them up to dry by the window and wrapping her in a wool blanket. Her hands were reddened raw and she had rope burns on her ribs from the initial dragging, but not severe owing to her quick action.

"That could have ended very badly." Flint was shaken by the experience, perhaps more so than Bess.

"Possibly..." she trailed off before resuming brightly, "but it didn't. And I doubt anything like that will happen again."

Begrudgingly, he agreed. "Yes. You handled that quite brilliantly."

"Thank you, Captain," she replied, suddenly shy.

"But then," he added slyly, "there's the matter of your refusing to identify your, ahem, accomplices to the unauthorized amusement—an insolence, which I intend to punish most severely..."

He took the blanket from her, noting that it had dried her almost completely. Her body shivered with goosebumps, whether from fear or cold he knew not, nor did he care. Roughly, he pushed her to the bed, sitting on her with his full weight and tying her spread-eagled to the bedposts; she did not struggle. Then he stared down at his handiwork, taking his breaches off while deciding where to start. Leisurely, his fingers glided along each leg, lingering at the thighs, watching as the juices began flowing. His tongue helped spread the liquid throughout the area, making it ready. Her entire skin was salty, but not just from the sea. His fingers moved upwards towards her tight nipples, pinching and massaging as her moans became more gutturally raw. He took those nipples in his mouth, sucking them through his teeth in turn, allowing his fingers to delve her nether regions for other erotically charged places, pleased to feel the moist flow unabated. She strained and bucked against her bonds, but they held tight. He placed his hand between her breasts to hold her down as his lips sought her neck, where he lingered for a few moments, especially gently along the thin scab, before seizing her lips and mouth, unsparingly probing every inch. When he pulled back a little from his explorations, she pushed upward, hungrily begging for more. He pushed her throat back to the bed, feeling her choking herself slightly in her need. No longer willing to restrain himself, he plowed into her willing mouth as he bent his own mouth to the mound between her legs, plunging his fingers inside simultaneously. He had prepared her well, despite her surprise and obvious lack of experience to match, and he felt the moans in her throat as she suckled eagerly, desperately trying to please him. He reached back to the pinch her nipples, pleasuring her to greater heights, before realizing she needed to come up for air. Turning around, he gave her no quarter as he thrust hard and fast into her, this time feeling her pulsing uncontrollably inside, and letting go himself. He left her tied up as he collapsed, draping his legs and arms unceremoniously on top.

"It occurs to me," he mused when he had recovered his breath sufficiently, "that you enjoy these punishments far too much to dissuade you from your willful behavior." He savored her scent inhaled from his mustache.

"Yes, sir," she murmured, half asleep.

He tweaked her nipple hard, eliciting a sharp gasp as her back arched desperately. "What have I said about calling me 'sir'?"

She rasped, "Sorry, Captain!"

"That's better, my sweet Bess." He massaged the breast he had pinched. Both nipples were standing at full attention. Running his fingers idly over her soft skin, he thought aloud, "what am I to do with you?"

He had woken her up sufficiently to answer him. "I suppose..."

"Yes?"

"I suppose you could give me permission to be willful—then you could punish me all you want without my disobeying you?"

Belly-laughing for the second time in twelve hours, Flint felt his stress ebb away completely. "I suppose you have a point there, Bess." Pushing her damp hair back from her face, he said, "I don't suppose I shall kill you this afternoon, either, m'dear. You may roam the ship freely now, but don't get in the way of the crew working." He untied her; she curled up in the fetal position to sleep and he covered her with a blanket.


	7. Bess' Ballad

_A note on the song in this chapter: this is a old folk song without a composer of record (probably Victorian in origin); as such it should not violate copyright_

* * *

Late in the afternoon, most of the crew assembled on the main deck to tell stories and sing songs while they waited for Mr. Randall to finish cooking their meal. Clad in the dried yoke-shirt and trousers, Bess sat on the quarter deck above, legs dangling on the steps listening, and then joining in on the choruses sung by all. By the rail nearby, Captain Flint watched. At some point, Smitty noticed her sitting there and addressed her directly.

"Miss Greenwood! Tell us your story."

She regarded him a long moment before tilting her head and smirking. "As it happens, I have a song to answer that..."

Sensing some fun, not only Smitty but several others encouraged her to begin, so she did, singing in a high tenor:

 _"When I was a fair maid about seventeen,  
"I listed in the navy all for to serve the queen..."_

She had leapt down to the main deck, approaching Thomas, sliding a comradely arm in his, while mimicking a lad with patriotic zeal:

 _"I listed in the navy, a sailor lad to stand,  
"For to hear the cannons rattlin' and the music so grand.  
"And the music so grand, the music so grand,  
"For to hear the cannons rattlin' and the music so grand."_

She moved on to Gates with exaggerated romantic interest, pretending to rub his broad shoulder and bulging bicep with awe:

 _"Now the officer that listed me was a strong and 'andsome man..."_

She mimicked his light Yorkshire accent in a rich, throaty tone before resuming her own thinner voice:

 _"He said, 'you'll make a sailor so come along my man.'  
"My waist being small and slender, my fingers long and slim"  
"And the very soon they learned me, I soon exceeded them!_

Here Bess held her palms upward shrugging in pretend humbleness, then strutting around humorously.

 _"I soon exceeded them, I soon exceeded them  
"And the very soon they learned me, I soon exceeded them!"_

She paused as the men drowned her out with laughter, then commenced the next verse, at first strong and brave, then eliciting titters from the crowd as she looked inside her shirt with amazement:

 _"Then they sent me to bed and they sent me to bunk  
"To lie with the sailors I never was afraid  
"But in taking off my blue coat, sure it oft times made me smile  
"For to think I was a sailor and a maiden all the while!  
"& a maiden all the while a maiden all the while  
"For to think I was a sailor & a maiden all the while"_

Guffaws from the crowd interrupted the song for a moment. She held up her hand to indicate there was more to the song:

 _"Well, they sent me to London all for to guard the tower  
"I'm sure I would be there 'til my very dying hour...  
"But a lady fell in love with me—I told her I was a maid..."  
"So she went unto my captain and my secret she betrayed"_

Here, she feigned indignant disbelief, hands on hips, and the crew followed with boos against the lady.

 _"Oh my secret she betrayed, my secret she betrayed,  
"Oh she went unto my captain and my secret she betrayed!"_

An ominous pause, before continuing slowly in horrible dread of the consequences:

 _"My captain came to me and asked if this were so...  
"I dare not—  
"I dare not—  
"I dare not say no..."_

Next, her mimicry of the captain's clipped baritone and facial expressions was so uncanny that the entire crew was mesmerized, as Flint crept down the steps to stand behind her with a stern look:

"' _Tis a pity we should lose you, such a sailor lad you've made  
_ _"'It's a pity we should lose you, such a handsome young maid  
"'You're a handsome young maid, a handsome young maid,  
_"' _Tis a pity we should lose you such a handsome young maid'"_

Sensing from the crew's expressions that he was behind her, she darted away from Flint, putting sailors between them before turning to face him with a stiff salute:

 _"So it's... fare thee well captain, you've been so kind to me"_

She turned to the crew with her hands clasped before her heart:

 _"And likewise my shipmates, I'm sorry to part with thee"  
"But..."_

Here she skipped nimbly past Smitty, stealing the cap from his head, and leaving him grabbing empty air to get it back. As he chased her, she pulled the cap firmly on her own head and leapt up on the rail, swinging onto the ratlines to get away, singing:

 _"...if ever the navy needs a lad, it's a sailor I'll remain  
"I'll put on my cap and feathers and I'll run the rigging again!  
"I'll run the rigging again, I'll run the rigging again,  
"I'll put on my cap and feathers and I'll run the rigging again!"_

The sailors erupted into laughter and cheering as Bess bowed and returned the cap to Smitty, mouthing her thanks over the din. When the noise died down, Smitty demanded, "Is any of that true?"

"Not a bit of it!" she replied merrily, leading to another round of guffaws.

"So how do you know about sailing, then?" Smitty pressed.

"I don't. Not a ship this size—I've sailed in a smaller boat than these..." She waved her hand at the longboats. "One short mast and a sail. But when you find yourself alone on a ship in the middle of the ocean, you've got to figure some things out..."

At this point Mr. Randall rang the bell for supper.


	8. Yes, Captain

Bess followed Captain Flint back to the cabin where the cook had already left their meal. As soon as she closed the door behind her, Flint wheeled around and pinned her to the wall. There was still a saucy fire in her eyes from the successful performance, but she offered no physical resistance. His voice was low and dangerous. "Mimicking Mr. Gates is one thing, but to mimic the captain in front of the crew? You are so very lucky not to have crossed the line into mockery..."

"Yes, captain," she said contritely, but her gaze never wavered. Flint took her mouth savagely, feeling her respond by opening up and allowing him to do as he pleased, even helping him probe deeper. Her return passion knocked him off balance, and he stumbled against the railing, momentarily loosening his grip on her. She fell to her knees and Flint discovered she had already untied his breeches, pulling him out half-mast and drawing him to full growth with her mouth. She had learned much from him in the past few days and she put that education to good use. But Flint had to stop her; no matter how submissive her attentions seemed, it would not do to allow her so much control over him. He pulled her up to her feet.

"Drop your trousers," he ordered softly.

"Yes, captain." She never took her eyes from his as she pulled her legs out of her pants, and Flint realized in that moment that when she said those words, what she really meant was **_I love you_** and that she was well and truly his, without reservation. He determined to put that to the test. This time when he bent her over the railing, he kept hold of her wrists behind her, using them to pull him into her deeply as she moaned piteously into his rough thrusts. He felt those moans intensify several times, pulsing inside her uncontrollably, but he kept himself in check, continuing the beating until he could no longer contain it, and then his massive final thrusts took the breath from her lungs in a voiceless scream. When he was finished, he placed her palms on the railing, curling her fingers over, noticing with satisfaction that she could barely keep herself balanced on it.

He re-tied his breeches and sat down to supper, eating heartily while he enjoyed the sight of her struggling not to fall on her head, but sliding finally into a puddle of limbs. His old shirt barely hid her delightful bits, enticing him to think of things he would do with her after he'd eaten. Would he allow her to eat? Or would going without a meal convince her not to push him too far? Would she even be able to eat after that pounding? As he watched her efforts to regain her senses, he pondered these questions, chuckling loudly. He took his boots off while waiting, loosening his shirt.

She succeeded in putting some semblance of herself back together, making her way to the chair opposite him at the table. She could barely sit, and the fire in her eyes had dimmed submissively, but she looked at him directly with a wan smile, saying softly, "thank you, Captain..."

He grinned generously as he poured her some wine, but she wasn't finished. Flint nearly dropped the bottle, spilling some on the bare wood of the table, when she continued.

"...may I have another?"

Guffawing at the sight of her huddled in his shirt, scarcely able to sit, he set the bottle back on the table, only barely keeping it off the edge. "Oh, Bess," Flint cried between laughs, shaking his head. He repeated his question from earlier in the day, "what am I to do with you?"

She shrugged sheepishly, blushing as if to say **_whatever you like_** , before picking up her glass and taking a long draught.

Flint decided to give her a rest by questioning her further. "It was Smitty who tossed you over the side this morning, wasn't it? The man whose arm you twisted and then stole his cap tonight, right?" She knitted her eyebrows in concern. "Don't worry, you didn't rat on him, but I already knew. I'm just curious, what made you react the way you did - how is it you weren't bitter enough for easy revenge? You know I would not have let him get away with it."

She considered a moment before replying, "a wise man once wrote: 'When anything tempts you to be bitter; not _This is a misfortune_ but rather _To bear this worthily is good fortune_ ' and I think also, 'the best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.'"

Flint flinched with a sharp gasp of recognition. "Marcus Aurelius!" he exclaimed. He walked over to a trunk and pulled out a book covered in red leather, plopping on the table.

"Mm," Bess agreed. "I think the cycle of harm and revenge is best broken before a snowball becomes an avalanche. Or, when life hands you sour grapes, make some wine so everyone can have refreshment." She raised her glass to him and drained it. He refilled it, laughing.

She lovingly took the book from the table, flipping through the pages, reading a few sentences before looking up. "Epictetus is good also. Would you happen to have more books here?"

He looked down at her bright, hungry eyes, feeling magnanimous. "Of course. We'll unpack them tomorrow." He took the book gently from her hands, placing it on the table, forgotten.

As her eyes weren't just starved for books, he led her to the bed, still a little unsteady on her feet, so he scooped her up and deposited her in the middle. He undressed himself before climbing in with her, slowly inching her shirt ( ** _his_** old shirt) up with kisses and caresses on her soft skin. She closed her eyes, clumsily clawing to untie the cuffs to help him do it faster, but that gave him an idea. He stopped her short, then slowly placed her hands over her head as if to take the shirt off, but instead, he pulled it up to her head and left it over her eyes, tucking the edges of it around and under to keep her arms together. Then he resumed slowly kissing her skin all over, caressing lovingly, kneading the muscles as he felt them respond to his touch.

Once he finished with her front, he rolled her over and started kneading the muscles from her shoulders to her toes, skipping her middle for last. When he reached her upper thighs and buttocks, he took special care, feeling the heat return not just to her shudderingly receptive form but to his own loins. He rolled her back over, spreading her legs with ease, sliding into her warm folds as she sighed with contentment. Drawing her feet up, she lifted her hips to help him slide deeper, taking his rhythmic lead. He leaned down and took her lips in his, sliding his tongue in with the same gentle ease and rhythm, enjoying her equal response. He brought them both to a gentle coitus before sinking down next to her, propped up on an elbow, pushing the shirt back over her forehead to look at her.

Slowly she unwound from the shirt, casting it to the floor and folding her hands behind her head. He caressed her breasts in circular motions, fascinated as the nipples stood at attention for him much faster than any phallus could. "Does anything I do tempt you to bitterness?"

She sighed. "On the contrary..." she bit her lip, stopping herself.

He flicked her nipple playfully, making her gasp. "Go on..."

"Since your first kiss, you've had me," she admitted. "Even the things which by all rights should make me bitter somehow instead make me even more inclined towards you; I don't even have to try to heed Marcus Aurelius' words. It's just how I feel. Why is that?"

Flint felt his phallus respond to her admission, but he ignored it. He had the sneaking suspicion that despite all of his attempts to conquer this woman—scratch that: perhaps **_because_** of all his attempts to conquer her, he had fallen helplessly in love with her. He had known it the minute his heart leapt out of his chest when she was in mortal danger. But he would be in mortal danger if he admitted as much. So instead, he replied, "Marcus Aurelius also said: 'Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.' And I think that's something you do, Bess, don't you?"

"Yes, Captain."

He heard: **_I love you._**

"It may be just because I was alone on this ship with no past and therefore no future until you met me. Fate intervened; I am still glad of it. Reminds me of another piece of advice the Roman emperor gave: 'When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.'"

"Is that why you go up to watch the dawn every morning?" Flint asked, softly. She nodded. "Wake me and I will go with you tomorrow," he commanded.

"Yes, Captain." **_I love you._** "I would like that." She smiled as she drifted off to sleep.


	9. New to Nassau

They made it to Nassau in good time, owing to the continual fair weather. Bess woke Flint every morning before dawn to climb into the crow's nest and enjoy the sunrise together. During the day, Bess would sew clothes for herself from the cloth Flint had provided, making knee-length breeches and a vest with attachable sleeves out of the dark green wool and smaller yoked shirts out of the blue muslin. At night, they would sup together and read before retiring to bed.

As they were anchoring in Nassau's harbor, Flint bade her to put on the blue silk dress, so that he could properly introduce Bess to Eleanor Guthrie, as he made arrangements for the warehousing of the Prize's goods. Bess had altered it to fit the sleeves better, and she braided her long hair, coiling it on her head with pins. She struggled to climb down the ladder boards in skirts, eventually giving up and using a rope to walk down the hull to the longboat below. She sat in the prow, drinking in the sights of Nassau, from the stone fort to the crew tents on the beach to the buildings further back from the water, and the ubiquitous palm trees scattered throughout. When they got to the beach, Bess stayed put until the crew pulled the bow into the sand, and Flint helped her down to keep her slippered feet out of the water.

Giving her his arm, Flint led Bess through the streets up to Eleanor Guthrie's tavern, turning heads as they walked. Very few ladies ever graced the town, let alone such tall ladies, and whispers of her presence and rumors of Flint's new ship flew wide. When they entered the establishment, a brief hush greeted them.

Flaxen-haired Eleanor came forward, eying the taller, darker lady up and down. "Captain Flint! We did not expect you so soon, but it appears you have brought business back to the harbor. Shall we discuss this in my office?"

"Eleanor, this is Miss Elizabeth Greenwood; Bess, this is Miss Eleanor Guthrie." Flint introduced them, gruffly formal.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Guthrie," Bess held out her hand.

"Please call me Eleanor, Miss Greenwood" the proprietress smiled warmly, taking her hand. "We don't much stand on ceremony here in Nassau, may I call you Bess?"

She nodded, returning the smile. "Please do."

Flint turned to Bess, "Please sit here and wait for me." He signaled to the barmaid to put her food and drink on his account, while he followed Eleanor to the office.

Bess sat down to sip the small beer the barmaid brought her, looking around the tavern. It was populated mostly by older sailors less interested in the brothel establishment on the other side of the town square, preferring to drink and converse in the relative quiet. Here, much of the island's business dealings were conducted, away from the seductive charms of the whores prying information out of their customers. As such, the patrons tended to be more serious and less volatile, but occasionally a fight might break out. Eleanor employed strong men to contain such situations.

A shadow prowled through the doorway. While this new presence did not quite lull the conversations, flickers of wariness darted around the room, especially from Eleanor's men, although they stayed put. He was a moderately tall man with deeply tanned skin and tangled greasy hair tied back from his face, which had a perpetual sheen of sweat mingling with his perpetual shadow of a beard. As if he owned the place, he grabbed a tankard from the barmaid, scouting around for quarry. He lit upon Bess, sitting there statuesquely alone. He wondered what Eleanor, would make of him talking to her; it would be worth it to see a spark of jealousy in his former lover's eyes...

Sidling up to her table, he sprawled down next to Bess, not bothering to seek permission. "I have not seen you around Nassau before. Charles Vane, captain of the Ranger." While his words were polite, the gravelly undertones bespoke danger.

Bess cast him a slow, sidelong glance before tilting her head deferentially in acknowledgement. But she did not reply.

"You've heard of me?" Vane ventured.

She nodded once, slowly, reservedly. She avoided looking at him directly, continuing to keep an eye on the rest of the tavern. Patrons glanced surreptitiously in their direction, but pretended to keep to their own business.

Determined to hear her voice, he changed tacks, requiring more than a yes or no answer. "Customarily, it is polite to introduce yourself as well." His murmured words threatened with a baritone rasp.

She inhaled as if to speak, then paused as a smirk touched the corners of her mouth and eyes. She reminded him of a dark-haired version of Eleanor. "Bess Greenwood," she replied in an educated accent, similar to Jack Rackham's, as she continued to look around the room, "former captain of the Prize." The faint grin stayed, intriguing a man so used to instilling fear instead of daring in those who had heard his reputation.

Vane whistled softly, looking at her fine-lady clothes and manners skeptically. Women sailors were rare and wore men's clothes; female captains unheard of in his world, much less cultured-lady captains. "Flint's Prize? She's a real beauty. No damage. I hear that she was surrendered without a fight, despite being faster and more heavily armed than the Walrus..." he sniggered, hoping to wipe that smile off her face but noting that she didn't seem bothered by losing her ship.

"Oh," she contradicted. "There **_was_** a fight." She nodded, chuckling before sobering. "But with their superior numbers, surrender was the only reasonable choice." Something in her tone told Vane there was much more to the story.

Vane noticed the hairline scab turning into a delicate, white scar on her throat. "Is that from the fight?"

She shook her head. "No, that was after." Still tantalizingly few details.

He raised his hand to touch the scar, but she was quick enough to fend him off with the back of her wrist, rising to her feet and fixing him with a narrow, warning stare with a set to her jaw. Not to be denied, he toppled his own chair to stand, grabbing the wrist in his vice-grip, using his other hand to gently caress her throat as he had intended, transfixing her with his sea-green eyes that bewitched all the women. While he was so occupied, she twisted her body away from him, drawing his cutlass smoothly from its scabbard, swiftly holding it to his neck as she forced him to release her wrist and back away to arm and sword's length.

He growled, "You've made a big mistake making an enemy of me, Bess Greenwood." Vane reached for his pistol, but found another sword pressed against his left chest.

"No, I think it is you, Vane, who have made a mistake here," barked Flint, who had opened the door to Eleanor Guthrie's office in time to see the chair tipping over. Eleanor's men were pulling out their own pistols behind him.

Bess placed Vane's cutlass on the table, hilt toward him, and backed away while Flint held steady. "I have no wish to make an enemy of you, Captain Vane. Please accept my apologies."

Eleanor snatched the sword from the table and pressed it flat-wise into Vane's hands and chest, pushing him backwards in her rage. "You dare attack a lady in my establishment?!" Her eyes flashed ominously as she considered what to do to him.

Wresting his gaze from Bess, Vane's expression became placating towards Eleanor. "A misunderstanding to be sure," he muttered, meekly taking her fury as his own evaporated.

Eleanor turned to Bess, "are you all right?"

She shrugged, nodding. "No harm, no foul."

Vane sheathed his cutlass, bowing half-mockingly, half-deferentially. "Please allow me to buy you a drink by way of apology, _Captain_ Greenwood." He tossed coins on the table. With one long look, Eleanor scooped up the coins and fetched a pitcher of their best ale and two extra mugs to set on the table.

Flint sheathed his own sword and raised a stern eyebrow, " _Captain_?" He steeled himself to another round of insolence, mulling over how he would repay it later, behind closed doors.

Bess smirked shyly, shrugging. "Well... technically... for a week... by default?" Flint's grunt of humor emboldened her to declare brightly, "unanimous vote of the crew!" Her sheepish grin drew deep belly laughs out of Flint.

Vane and Eleanor looked at both of them in turn, amazed but infected by the hilarity. Serious-minded Flint hardly ever laughed, but it was good to see.

Suspicious of the insider-joke, Vane hazarded a guess, "I take it _Captain_ Greenwood was the only crew aboard?" She nodded, eliciting his self-deprecating chuckle at being fooled. However, he wouldn't underestimate her in future; he could tell by their interaction that while Bess could hold her own, she was subservient to Flint—and to Flint alone. Vane respected that, vainly wishing Eleanor could be eyes-only for him like that again, such was their star-crossed tragedy.

As they continued drinking together, Flint regaled them with his version of finding Bess, and her subsequent antics onboard the Prize that the crew had witnessed, from her dealing with Smitty, to escaping the hold, to swinging from the rigging and leading the sailors on a merry chase, to being tossed overboard only to waterski on a barrel, and winning the crew over with a silly ballad. Such things would have been borne by the sailors all over town by now, Flint guessed, so he might as well give an official account of it. While Eleanor and Vane both gained respect for Bess, they guffawed often as she shrugged bashfully, drinking far more than her share while hiding behind her tankard. Within the hour, Bess was well and truly into her cups, while her fantastic reputation as the Fair Maid Captain Bess of the Prize spread throughout the island, carried by the gossiping winds, embellished in many directions.

Noticing her extremely inebriated condition, Flint asked Eleanor for the use of her upstairs parlor, ushering the lurching Bess by the arm to the stairs.


	10. Who's the Only Captain?

As the door closed behind them, Flint held Bess by the arms, forcing her to focus on him.  
"Are you drunk out of fear of what I'm going to do to you for daring to call yourself captain?" his tone was ominous.

She nodded, hiccupping. "A li'l. But moshtly embarra..." hic, "embarra..." hic, "sshhment. 'N'shtronger ale..." hic, "'Ale, man, ale'sh th'shtuff to drink, for fellowsh whom it hurrrrtsh to shink[1]!'" hic.

"Getting drunk merely delays your punishment, dear Bess." Flint sat her on the couch and poured a glass of water. "Drink this." She did, as the hiccups settled. "Now lie down and I shall deal with you later, once you've had time to sober up."

"Ysh, cap'n," Bess replied meekly.

* * *

After running a few errands, Flint returned to the hired room a few hours later, finding Bess still sleeping. He woke her and brought her downstairs to a pair of horses he had hired to take them to the Barlow estate. He helped her up side-saddle, but took her reins as he galloped them up the road.

Miranda was waiting for them on the porch, having tea in the shade.

Flint introduced them with the same stiff formality as he had in town, "Miranda, this is Miss Elizabeth Greenwood; Bess, this is Mrs. Miranda Barlow."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Barlow," Bess smiled.

Miranda's return smile was even more friendly, "Likewise, Miss Greenwood." She looked quizzically at Flint. "You finally found her, James?"

Flint shuffled his feet.

"You were looking for me?" Bess asked, puzzled. "Is there something you know that I don't?"

Flint saw the suspicion and curiosity in her eyes to know more about her situation. "No," he replied quickly. "Mrs. Barlow is speaking generally. Of finding someone like you whom we've talked about in the past." Turning to Miranda, he nodded. "Yes. She even quoted Marcus Aurelius to me," a knowing look passed between them. "That is why I have brought Bess here. I trust the two of you will become good friends."

Miranda motioned to Bess to sit down while she fetched more teacups and bade Flint to set out chairs. Flint recounted the story of finding Bess on the Prize and subsequent events on deck and in Nassau with a more subdued manner, still eliciting amused smiles and increasing admiration from Miranda, but less embarrassment from Bess. They spent the evening speaking on various topics, including literature and philosophy.

Later, while Bess was luxuriating in a bath in the guest room, Flint and Miranda spoke outside.

"She is delightful, James."

"Too delightful, I'm afraid," he replied, brooding.

"Nonsense. She is exactly who I have wished for you. I know you have done your best to service my needs after Thomas was taken from us, but it's not what you need yourself. We're both needing to be masters in bed, and she can be submissive to you where I cannot."

Brooding, Flint continued, "She reacts in many ways that I cannot fathom. You should see how willful she gets when she wears breeches, clambering up into the ship's rigging; when I take her to task afterwards, it's as if she enjoys it even more when I am rough. Sometimes I don't know who is mastering whom..."

"I envy you; I have been working on the local preacher, but he isn't nearly as exciting a prospect. From what you describe, she appears to be the most naturally submissive lover I have ever met, needing almost no training to respond to your mastery." Miranda thought for a moment. "She is the Epictetus to your Marcus, dear James. Marcus Aurelius was a powerful Emperor, ironically learning philosophy from the discourses of the slave, Epictetus, who rose from nothing."

"But the more I push her to submit, the more power I think I give her," Flint observed.

"Ah, yes," Miranda nodded sagely, "the true power lies with the submissive one, not the master. She gives that power to you and could just as easily take it away by simply not submitting to it. Based on what happened with Smitty and Captain Vane—I say she chose you, even as you bent her to your will. She did not give herself to them, and my God, _Captain Vane_? Who but Eleanor Guthrie could handle _him_? But by the same token, she feeds off the submission you force her into taking; it strengthens her. She craves that submission _to_ you just as much as you crave it _from_ her. Take the chest into her room. I am certain she will be ready for more intense amusements."

* * *

As he brought the chest into the guest room and placed it on the table, Flint found Bess had crawled between the fine sheets, naked but for a short shift and fallen asleep. Opening the chest, he selected several items for use on her. Careful not to wake her, he bound each of her wrists with leather cuffs, and then tied them together around the bed post. Then roughly he pulled her hips down diagonally across the bed to tighten her arms straight as her shift bunched up to her armpits; she did not struggle, but her eyes opened wide. "As I said, my dear Bess, your punishment was only delayed," he sneered softly, kneeling between her legs as he opened a wrapped item he had taken from the chest.

Inside the oilcloth was a glass wand with a knob handle; the wand was fat and undulating, phallic but not nearly as big as Flint's member, Flint watched with satisfaction as Bess stared with roiling emotions. Confusion, curiosity, apprehension... thrill. He laid the cold glass on her stomach, knob resting heavily on her belly button while the tip rested between her breasts. It amused him to see the goose pimples as he removed his breeches.

"Who is the only Captain here, Bess?" he teased. He wasn't only thinking of 'Captain' Bess, but also of Vane who had nearly duplicated his own sword fight with her, minus the actual fight, the surrender and the kiss, although he doubted Bess' interest in anyone else, let alone that smelly bastard. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"You are, Captain," she gasped as the goose pimples spread.

Then he proceeded to prepare her with his fingers and tongue, finally sliding the glass wand inside of her, as she moaned and wriggled. He massaged her buttocks and the space between her legs and openings, relaxing the muscles as she continued to enjoy the light wand thrusts. When the wand was thoroughly coated in her juices, he pulled it out and switched openings. Her euphorically-closed eyes flew open as she realized what he was doing. He savored the moment, slowly pushing in and out, ever deeper as he captivated her shocked gaze, which became lost in his power, feeling her submitting to him completely and utterly. Her moans had changed to a raw, primal whimper. Her nipples were tight as she strained against the leather bonds; he tweaked them in turn with his free hand, as she gasped and choked in pure ecstasy. Finally, he added his own member to the primary opening, pressing into the tightness as he felt the wand against him through her flesh. He thrust into her countless times, as she shuddered and whimpered, losing control over her breath and consciousness. He felt her throbbing, robbing even himself of complete control, as he bucked into her. Once fully released, he pulled himself and the wand out of her slowly, feeling her shudder with each inch. When he was completely free, she curled up into a shivering ball around her bound wrists in the corner of the bed. He covered her with a blanket and sprawled across the rest of the bed.

"Who is the only Captain around here, my dear, sweet Bess?" Flint mused.

She moaned piteously in wordless reply.

"I thought as much."

Ten minutes later, he untied her from the bedpost, but keeping the cuffs on, and she curled up against him, still unable to talk for another quarter hour. He stroked her hair while he waited.

"Thank you, my one and only Captain," she croaked eventually, "may I have another?—But...maybe not for a little while..."

He laughed. "Still not inclined to bitterness?"

"Never, Captain." And what Flint heard was: **_Never will I want another captain_**.

* * *

[1] Alfred E. Houseman _, A Shropshire Lad_ "Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink/For fellows whom it hurts to think."


	11. Mrs Barlow and Bunburying

When daybreak arose, Flint was surprised to open his eyes and see Bess lying there curled up to him. Even though there was no crow's nest, somehow he expected she would be gone somewhere. Then again, she was still naked, apart from the leather cuffs. It seemed only natural that Flint take advantage of the situation, which he did most thoroughly before murmuring into her ear, "When you dress, leave these on."

Bess cocked her head at him inquisitively but simply replied, "Yes, captain."

When they emerged for breakfast, Miranda spotted the leather cuffs immediately. Raising her eyebrow, a faint smile played around her lips as she busied about getting breakfast ready. The smile broadened when Bess joined her as if already part of the routine.

Over breakfast, Flint told Miranda that he would be leaving Bess with her for a while. "Eleanor's contacts have located the ship with the schedule; they'll be bound from Port Royal to Charlestown the day after tomorrow and I have plans to intercept. With both ships and plenty of shot, I foresee no problems taking it."

Miranda's eyes twinkled. "Good."

"However, I am still a little worried about Singleton. Despite my giving him temporary captaincy of the Walrus, I see the greed in his eyes. He may mutiny and try to take most of the crew with him. Especially as this new quarry isn't likely to have the cargo I am promising them."

Eying Bess, Miranda replied, "I'm sure you'll manage. You always do."

Flint nodded, then took his leave.

Left alone together, Bess and Miranda nodded amiably at each other. Bess excused herself, and when she came back from the guest room, the leather cuffs had been put away.

As the weeks grew on, Miranda and Bess enjoyed each other's company, gardening together, cooking and discussing literature and philosophy—even playing the harpsichord Flint had procured on one of his raids. Miranda found the taller woman to be especially helpful around the little estate, doing things that she often hired local lads to attend to—sometimes even showing her ways to handle heavy work, such as adding an extra pulley to lighten the load. "Work smarter, not harder," Bess commented.

One day after a particularly deep philosophical conversation, Miranda gently asked, "Greenwood isn't your family name, is it dear? I only say that because your education seems far too good for a common name like Greenwood. That is a West Yorkshire surname if memory serves, but I hear no trace of Northern England in your rather educated accent. I am wondering if I knew your family when I lived in England...?"

Bess blinked. "'What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name...'" she shrugged, leaving Miranda to remember in the rest of the quote from _Romeo and Juliet_. "Everyone calls me Bess Greenwood, so is it not my name, just as surely as yours is Barlow and the captain's is Flint?"

Miranda looked at her sharply, wondering if this strange woman knew of the ruse that Mrs. Thomas Hamilton and James McGraw lived under. But the woman seemed unaware. "Perhaps so." She sipped her tea in contemplation.

On Wednesday afternoons, Miranda took tea with Pastor Lambrick, whose wanderings were like clockwork; Miranda introduced "Elizabeth" only as her visiting cousin, not wishing the reverend to associate her with the Captain Bess legend in Nassau town. Bess only listened and never spoke and after just one Wednesday, she found other things to occupy her time to leave the two alone. It seemed to Miranda that Bess knew instinctively what game Mrs. Barlow was playing with the ovine shepherd and left her the freedom to pursue him.

"Where is it you go these Wednesdays when I am having tea with the reverend?" Mrs. Barlow was curious.

"Bunburying," came the elusive answer.

"And what, pray tell is that?" Miranda could tell there was some hint of mischief by the eye-twinkle.

"From a play— _The Importance of Being Earnest_ —bunburying is about leaving the expectations of civilization behind and living _earnestly_ for a change. One of the characters in the play, cites this imaginary sick friend, Bunbury, as his reason to cancel obligatory engagements, like having tea with your reverend," Bess chuckled. "Would you like to come with me to see what I do? First, you'll have to have breeches and shirts to wear..."

Miranda hadn't heard of the play—not surprisingly as it hadn't been written yet—but she was intrigued by the idea. Bess had already found some old clothes in a storeroom that she'd been wearing, and there were others to tailor for Miranda as well. Their first outing entailed climbing trees, building sandcastles at the beach, and swimming in the surf; Miranda had never done any of these things but as she threw off the inhibitions of aristocratic life with those clothes, she was eager to learn.

As they were sitting on the beach watching the sunset, Bess commented, "It wasn't to leave you alone with Pastor Lambrick that I started going a-bunburying, although I think you prefer to have him to yourself."

"I do in fact like to have him to myself, but why do you feel the need to excuse yourself?" Miranda was curious.

"I can imagine he would have me burned at the stake if I were to discuss religion or philosophy with him. 'Malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man...[1]'" They both chuckled. "You have a more measured manner of discussing such things, but I bit my tongue far too many times the day I met the pastor, which is why I was silent."

Miranda nodded. "Perhaps you were quite wise to go a-bunburying."

They continued these outings on Thursday afternoons, fishing, riding bareback, and practicing sword fighting with sticks, among other youthful pursuits. They discussed future outings into the heart of Nassau once Miranda had acquired the skills necessary to handle herself in a rough crowd. It was one thing to visit the main thoroughfare of town where people conducted themselves well; it was an entirely different thing to enter the alleyways where the ruder elements resided.

* * *

Every now and then, Flint would return at night, speaking with Miranda of developments with l'Urca de Lima. It seemed every time they had one success, another setback would complicate things. Afterwards, Flint would enjoy himself in Bess' bed and then leave early the next morning.

On one particular evening, Bess retired early, exhausted from the day's work. Flint inquired of Miranda what she had been doing.

"See all that wood stacked there?" The pile stretched around the entire porch. "Two trees fell down in a storm the other night, blocking the road. She and I used the tree saw to cut them into smaller pieces and then she chopped them up. I did not have to hire the Jenkins lad to help. She even showed me how to chop wood more efficiently using physics and mathematics—algebra to be precise: letters substituting for numbers."

"Physics? You mean what they study at university?" Flint was puzzled. Women did not attend university, let alone study higher mathematics.

"Yes. Sir Isaac Newton's Second Law of Motion: Force is equal to mass multiplied by acceleration. If you are a woman and have half the mass of a man, you can use twice the acceleration, or twice the speed at the point it hits the log and stops and you get the same force as a man." Miranda was pleased to remember the formula. "She showed me how to break a stick as thick as my little finger with just a piece of paper[2]."

Eyebrow raised, Flint nodded, not quite following, but getting the gist of the idea.

"Also, levers and fulcrums. The axe handle is a lever, and the further away from the head that it is held, the greater the force when hitting the log. It is easier to toss it up closer to the head, so choke up on the handle, toss it high into the air, then back up to the end of the handle to add your own force to Sir Isaac Newton's concept of gravity as acceleration when it comes down, and increase the ability to get through the wood." Miranda smiled with satisfaction.

"All that just to chop wood." Flint was bemused by the complicated explanation. But he had to admit that it was an impressive pile. Two trees in as many days. Not many of his men would do that, although likely more out of sheer laziness.

"She says to me: 'Work smarter, not harder.' Although I have to say, she's the most hard-working person I know. It seems to me there's no limit to what she can do, unless you tell her not to do it or that she shouldn't do it, she just carries ahead and does it. No apparent concept of what is women or men's work or anything."

"I've noticed that," Flint nodded, thinking of how exasperating it could be at times.

Miranda continued, "Also, she showed me how to rig up pulleys in the barn so that I can reduce the weight of things in half, quarter and even eighths. So I don't have to hire David to lift the hay bales or cut them down to size. And I can easily store extra trunks in the loft by myself to get them out of the way."

"We use pulleys aboard ship; I could have—should have—shown you..." Flint was impressed that Bess had thought of it, let alone knew enough to teach Miranda.

Miranda's eyes lit up. "She is delightful—such a true Renaissance woman—wherever did she come from? Tell me: Greenwood isn't her family name, is it?"

Flint grunted. "No. I gave her that name—she doesn't actually have a name—Christian nor surname—at all." To Miranda's raised eyebrows, he continued. "She remembers nothing of her life before awakening aboard the Prize, about a week before we boarded. Obvious high-born manners and education, but where she comes from I cannot begin to guess—perhaps you would know, with all those salons you hosted? Surely some unconventional family with a daughter they raised as a son..."

Miranda shook her head. "Unfortunately, no. Perhaps it is best not to know, should her family thus become distressed over her current situation. Although, she is certainly thriving here."

Flint nodded. "I tried to trace her course based on what I know of the prevailing winds and her description of how she navigated, and there is absolutely nothing in that direction. No islands, no land for thousands of leagues. She does not appear to be much bothered by it since the first night I questioned her. Like she was heaven-sent to me and has not looked back." Flint mused.

He waited until morning to attend to their mutual needs, allowing Bess the extra sleep.

* * *

[1] Alfred E. Houseman _, A Shropshire Lad._

[2] Believe it or not, but this was done with a pencil and a folded dollar bill by my Physics teacher in high school


	12. Monster Flint and Debauched Nassau

Early one morning, before dawn, while Bess was still in bed but Miranda had the lamps burning, Pastor Lambrick came to the door, agitated by rumors that Miranda had been receiving Eleanor Guthrie, a known pirates conspirator, into her home, even petitioning on the Guthrie woman's behalf to speak with the respectable Mr. Underhill. While he was scolding his newest parishioner, he let slip that Abigail Ashe, daughter of Lord Peter Ashe was being held captive in the fort by Charles Vane, who had chopped off the head of the pirate who originally kidnapped her and hung it on a stake in the square to please Eleanor Guthrie, such was the company that woman kept.

Realizing the gravity of the situation and hearing that Flint would be bombarding the fort with cannon fire at dawn, Miranda woke her guest and explained the situation to her as they hitched up the horse to the buggy together, leaving Bess at the little house while she took off to save the poor girl's life—and the life of everyone in Nassau in the process. If Lord Peter Ashe, Lord Governor of the Carolina Colonies and infamous pirate hunter, were to lose his only daughter to the pirates, what followed would be complete annihilation of all pirates.

Through the machinations of Eleanor, Flint, Miranda and various other Nassau inhabitants, they managed to rescue the girl and return her to Charleston without ransom, hoping thereby to secure a universal pardon for Nassau. But that was not to be and disaster followed, including: Miranda's death at the hands of William Rhett; Silver's maiming at the hands of Vane's lieutenants; and the complete sacking of Charlestown at Flint's hand by the Spanish man-of-war's prodigious gun batteries.

* * *

Blindly, Flint galloped back to Miranda's little house, barging through the door to be stopped up short by a startled Bess directly in his path. She stared up at his grief-stricken eyes, her own filling with tears as her right hand came up tentatively to caress his shaved head. He could see she knew without his saying a word. His vision blurred and he saw Miranda's concerned eyes staring back at him.

Impulsively, he grabbed that hand by the wrist, tearing it away from his head and using it to spin her around, pushing her face down on the table, her right forearm pressed hard into the small of her back as he fumbled with her breeches, tearing them down and opening his own. Still gripping her wrist with all the strength in his hand, he leaned his other hand on her left shoulder, driving himself into her over and over with all of his grief and anger. As he felt the sobs wrack her shoulders, he heard the keening in his ears, unsure from whose lungs it emanated. Fine china fell from the table, smashing to the floor, and it felt as if Miranda's life was breaking into pieces all over again, but he didn't care. All of England could crash and burn like Charlestown did under all batteries from the man-of-war, and that would never be sufficient to avenge her death at the hands of so-called civilization.

Eventually, the burning in his lungs made him stop and he sank to the floor exhausted. Suddenly, Bess was on her knees behind him cradling his head on her bosom, stroking the fuzz on his crown with her left hand as she rocked him gently, shushing his sobs as tears streamed down both their cheeks. As the sun sank lower in the sky, a ray of light pierced the window, highlighting the purple-and-black fingermarks enclosing Bess' swollen, useless right wrist lying on his chest, shocking Flint back into his senses. He extricated himself from her embrace and stumbled back out to his horse.

Flint could not even look back as he galloped back to the ship; he could not return while such darkness was still inside him. He could not allow himself to be so out of control to hurt Bess—better to take it out on the real monsters—the magistrates hanging pirates throughout the Caribbean.

* * *

Flint stayed away for quite some time, although every now and then, some little gift would for Bess would appear on the porch in the dead of night. A book with "I am sorry" inscribed in beautiful calligraphy on the blank page. An ivory comb inlaid with jewels that used to belong to a magistrate's wife—who no longer needed it... Bess tried to stay up at night and catch him, but the one night she was sure he was there lurking in the shadows, somehow he knew she was waiting and stayed hidden.

In the intervening weeks, as her sprained wrist healed, Bess split her time between the little homestead and Nassau town, traveling by wagon to sell proceeds from the garden in exchange for supplies she needed. She heard tales of how Captain Rackham had retrieved the Urca gold, but at a great cost to labor; no one wanted to work for low wages, and even at high wages they didn't seem to do much labor. The old governor's palace had been turned into a free-for-all gambling house. Debauchery seemed the order of the day.

Bess was by the docks, sitting in a tree watching the horizon for Flint's ship, when Captain Vane stormed into view. He sat on one of the wharf stumps, brooding. A copper piece dropped onto the plank beside him. He looked up, startled.

"For your thoughts," she called down to from above.

Vane cocked his head inquisitively.

"Or, perhaps I need to offer a doubloon these days," Bess laughed.

He grunted in reply. Then shrugging, "It's this damned problem with the labor on this island. Can't pay anyone—not for any amount of money—to fix the fort—which needs to be done before the Spanish come looking for their gold—so of course Rackham tricked me into boarding a slaver ship. Goddamned slaves. I would free them, but we need them to fix the fort. They're the only ones who will actually work. I was helping them, but they kicked me out, telling me it was bad for the order of things."

"You don't like slavery, do you, Captain Vane?" She ventured.

"Goddamned right I don't," his gravelly voice reverberated.

"What if you freed them as soon as the work is finished, giving them the money you would have paid others? Then they can have their fair wages to start a new life?" With that, Bess leapt down from the tree and sauntered back into town to retrieve the horse and wagon.

Vane narrowed his eyes at the receding figure. _Goddamned woman is a genius_ , he thought. _She should be in charge of things instead of Rackham. But that's the last thing Nassau needs: another goddamned woman in charge mucking around with everyone's lives._

* * *

Bess roamed freely in Nassau, with no fear that anyone would dare mess with her. But the royal navy had no such qualms. After Captain Hornigold nabbed Eleanor and turned her over to Hume to take back to England aboard the Scarborough, another lieutenant with aspirations of rapid promotion decided to follow suit with the legendary _Captain_ Bess, either to be questioned or put on trial, no one was sure which; the lieutenant who captured her wasn't even sure whether she was a victim or an accessory of the pirates, with all the strange rumors he'd heard that couldn't possibly be true. Bess questioned the lieutenant's sanity—what was it about being captured by pirates and having broken no laws that confused him about her lawfulness?

In any case, there she was on the lieutenant's ship, the Ludgate. They had given up trying to contain her in the hold, even in irons. She always managed to escape the moment they left her alone, and there were not enough men on the crew to spare one to look after her at all times, let alone chase her all over the rigging. Because of her obvious high-born manners, despite what clothes she was wearing when brought on board, they did not have the heart to discipline her like some low-born crew member. So the captain gave her the cabin boy's bunk and the run of the ship. It was easier that way. After all, where was she going to go aboard ship in the middle of the ocean?


	13. Blackbeard Rescues Bess

**_Credit in advance to William Goldman and his book,_** ** _The Princess Bride_** ** _. This is not a crossover because his characters do not appear in this story. The dialogue is half from the book, half from the movie and abridged for the purposes of this scene. Bess knows the lines because she is a modern woman dreaming this early 18th century adventure..._**

* * *

Aboard a large frigate Blackbeard spied the English ship sailing and gave pursuit, knowing there was correspondence that he did not want to reach the admiralty. There would be no return of English rule at Nassau if the black-haired pirate had anything to say about it; he was on his way to Nassau upon hearing that the Guthries' stranglehold on the island had been ousted and he was looking forward to a return to pirate rule and reconnecting with his protégé, Charles Vane.

Being the better sailor, Blackbeard soon caught up to the Ludgate, raked them with enough cannon balls to board them, and proceeded to fight the remaining English troops. An imposing man-of-war of a pirate, standing at six-and-a-half feet tall, he used all of his bulk in battle. Having dispatched three redcoats by himself on the quarterdeck with as many blows, Blackbeard found one lone figure remaining, who had not been armed, but who now scooped up one of the redcoats' abandoned swords, holding it in her left hand defensively in his direction. While she wore a man's breeches and shirt, the tailored vest made for no mistaking of her sex. The tall woman was yet dwarfed by him and with impossibly small, bare feet, made an extremely unlikely opponent.

Blackbeard's bellowing laugh echoed above the din of the fighting. "What you do not realize is that no man has ever pointed a sword or a gun at me and lived—give up now and I may spare your life!" And he lunged forward, intending to knock the sword from her hands to end this foolishness.

To his surprise, she blocked that initial blow, and those he sent after it, although she was buffeted around severely as he increased the brutal force with his growing anger. Finally, he knocked her completely down, the sword skittering out of her hand. He thought that was the end of it, but she rolled away from him, picking up another dropped sword in her right hand as she did so.

"What _you_ do not appear to realize, sir," she replied, far too relaxed, "is that one: I am not a man, and two: I am not left-handed."

"To the death it is, lass!" Blackbeard roared as he charged at her again. But this time, she parried instead of blocking, and she darted sideways, leaving a hole for his own power to knock him off balance.

"No: _To the pain,_ sir _._ " She waited serenely for him to recover his balance.

"To the _pain_? Explain." Blackbeard was intrigued, calming a little in his curiosity, but still attacking vigorously.

"To the pain means the first thing you will lose are your feet—the left and then the right." She slid on her knees past him under his swing as she tapped each of his ankles in turn with the flat of her sword, whirling around to face him as she stood back up.

"Next, your hands at the wrist." She parried his next two blows, tapping his wrists similarly, drawing no blood and barely registering as touch to the re-enraged pirate, who realized she could just as easily have sliced him with the edge of her blade.

"And then your nose, followed by your tongue." Bonk-bonk. She slipped those two in as he stumbled through another hole she left while weaving, bouncing off his nose and onto his infuriated lips.

"And then my ears, lass?" he growled, daring her to box them with his eyes narrowing further into steel-grey slits.

"Wrong. Your left eye, followed by your right." She tapped his temples quickly but lightly, avoiding his blocking attempts with ease. "Your ears you will keep, and I'll tell you why: so that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman that cries out _'Dear God what is that thing_?' will reverberate forever in your perfect ears. That is what ' _To the pain'_ means. That I leave you to wallow in freakish misery... you pig... you vomitous mass..." She paused, nearly giggling.

He lunged at her with a vengeful roar, but she was quick enough to leave another hole for him to stumble, extending a foot to trip him to his knees this time, his sword hand clattering to the deck to catch his balance. Instantly, she put her blade to his neck to dissuade him from picking it up.

"Drop. Your. Sword." She enunciated each word distinctly, taking a proud, wide stance.

He glared up at her menacingly; he did not pick up his cutlass, but neither did he let go of it. The sounds of fighting on the main deck below ceased, leaving an eerie calm. Blackbeard's mouth twisted into a triumphant sneer as the hackles on Bess' neck rose. In that moment, she realized that the pirates had won the fight and had crept up behind her.

"Or not...?" she squeaked sheepishly as she allowed her own sword to drop point down to the deck, held only between middle finger and thumb. She extended her other hand and braced herself backwards offering to help him up to his feet, but despite her bracing he pulled her down, knocking the dangling sword to the deck before standing them both up. He faced his crew, tightly holding her close by the upper arm while she faced him alone.

A whisper could be heard among the crew. "That's Captain Bess! She bested Blackbeard in a swordfight..." No one had ever bested Blackbeard.

 _Blackbeard?!_ She mouthed up at him, suddenly wide-eyed and ashen; his sneer deepened with a rumble in his throat, pleased to see his reputation revealing her grave mistake. "Uh... No! I didn't!" she protested loudly over her shoulder. "He would have knocked the sword out of my hands in another moment if you hadn't intervened." To him, she continued in a contrite tone. "Please accept my humble apologies, Captain Teach."

Blackbeard grimaced into what might have been a satisfied smile. His crew jeered at the helpless prisoner, stopping the whisper before it took hold. "That I would have, indeed, lass. So you're Flint's poppet, are ye? It's true that no man has ever pointed a blade nor pistol at me and lived; but you're no man. And women have more uses..." He sheathed his sword and gestured to one of the crew. "Rope." A length of rope appeared in his open palm and he tied her wrists together with it, never taking his predatory eyes off hers as she gulped in dread. Then he hoisted her over his shoulder like a potato sack and took her back to his ship, dumping her on the window seat of his cabin where they were alone.

Blackbeard sprawled in his carved oak chair, regarding her lazily as he twisted a knife absently in his hands. "Vomitous mass?" his bass voice mused. "I haven't heard that one before..." He picked his teeth with the knife, considering what to do with her, enjoying watching her squirm under his steely stare. " _Captain_ Bess... Now, I have heard about you, along with other news about Nassau. You like to be a monkey on board ship, don't you?"

She shrugged, palms upward as far as her bound hands would permit.

"Not aboard my ship. You do that and I'll throw you to my crew and forget about you. You stay here in my cabin until we return to Nassau and you'll have nothing to fear from them. Nor me. Deal?"

She released a big sigh of relief. "Deal." The rope that had bound her hands dropped to the cabin floor, earning a cock of the head and a warning squint from Blackbeard. She shrugged again at him apprehensively. He did not bother to retie her hands, turning instead to his desk and charts. When he left the cabin, he did not spare a glance in her direction, knowing that she would stay put.

* * *

The trip back to Nassau passed without incident, and balmy weather accompanied them the entire week. Bess ate meals with Blackbeard, who largely ignored her, and she slept on the window seat under a wool blanket that he threw at her the first night. During the day, she wandered his cabin, reading the few books that were there, and tried to understand the sea charts on his desk. When she asked questions, Blackbeard waved her off as if she were a pesky fly, so she quickly clammed up. He did not want to engage with her, concerned he might like her too much; she belonged to Flint and he'd much rather pick his battles carefully.

Before taking her out of his cabin, Blackbeard retied her wrists. Then he took her ashore in the longboat, lifting her out at the beach and hoisting her over his shoulder again. He strode directly to Captain Flint, who was conversing with Silver, and plonked her on the sand next to them. "I believe this is yours. You're welcome," he said gruffly then turned heel and walked away to look for his old friend, Charles Vane, muttering, "Better you than me, Flint."

Flint stared at the receding figure, then at the figure at his feet. Something didn't add up. Normally Blackbeard was a little more jovial. "Did you engage in a sword fight with him?" Flint demanded softly. Silver sucked his breath in through his teeth, putting two and two together, but keeping silent.

She nodded sheepishly, letting the rope fall on the ground as she stood up, dusting sand off her clothes and hair.

Flint closed his eyes, shaking his head wearily, sighing. "What am I going to do with you, Bess?" He was pleased she was returned; he had been worried when she went missing, kicking himself for leaving her alone for so long while he worked out his demons. He had thought the rumors of her being aboard the Ludgate bound for London were the worst outcome. But then, he wondered: _how_ _ **ever**_ _could she have gotten herself into a fight with the pirate who rescued her—the one pirate one never crossed swords with and lived?_ He would just have to wait until he got her alone to find out.

* * *

Standing there on the beach, it became a little awkward for all three of them: Flint because he wasn't sure how much John Silver really knew about their relationship and hoped not a lot; Silver because he figured he knew way too much that he didn't want to know about the situation; and Bess just wanted a change of clothes after a week cooped up in Blackbeard's cabin.

She said as much, to which Silver replied something about organizing the longboat, but she was already running to the docks, kicking up sand in the full freedom of a sprint. Flint ran after her, yelling at her not to take the longboat yet, with Silver hurriedly limping behind. Flint figured he would catch up to her before she could unwrap the painters, but to his amazement, she did not stop running but shot up speed as her bare feet found purchase on the solid boards, all the way out into a long dive off the end of the dock. She emerged a few seconds later, swimming about 30 yards from the dock, cutting quickly through the waves, with long overhand strokes and rapidly kicking legs. Cursing, both Flint and Silver took off after her rowing furiously together, only catching up as she arrived at the Prize. All three clambered up the hull together to the deck, Flint stopping Bess with a hand on her shoulder.

"What the hell was that, Bess?" he demanded.

"Huh? You told me not to take the longboat, Captain, and a dip in the water seemed like a really good idea."

Silver laughed. "You could have drowned, ma'am," he spoke their worry aloud.

She knitted her brow, not seeing the point. "It's only a few hundred yards and in tropical water to boot."

Flint finally interjected, "Not everyone swims as well as you clearly do, Bess. Now go to the cabin and change out of those wet clothes." He turned to Silver, "And you, take the boat back to the beach; you can send it back here in an hour with the shift change. I'll deal with this, personally."

"Aye, captain." Silver chuckled as he climbed back down the hull.

* * *

Still the beach asking for Vane, Blackbeard turned to see the commotion on the docks, not believing his eyes when he saw the troublesome female running full tilt off the end of the dock only to swim out to the ship ahead of the longboat. A rumble in his throat erupted as he considered how easily she could have jumped out the stern window while they were mooring instead of letting him to truss her up and dump her at Flint's feet. An appreciating sneer accompanied that rumble. She honored the deal they had made, and allowed him to save face in Nassau by bringing her back to Flint himself, no matter how insolently—and capably—she had fought him. "Cheeky monkey," he muttered much happier than he had been when he left Flint. The rumble turned into a deep belly laugh that reverberated across the beach and out onto the water.


End file.
